


Breath Play

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Selcouth Timestamps [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bathing, Caning, Collars, Cuddling, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Spanking, breath play, selcouth verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:50:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4239648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hannibal brings the implements to the bed and sets them on the worn bedcover. Each goes in the order in which it was requested, and listening absently as Will ushers the dogs outside, Hannibal pads to the bathroom to get a glass of water. He doesn’t finish it, knowing how it will turn in his stomach once his skin heats beneath skillful strokes of the lash, but it dampens away the dry metallic taste of anticipation.</i>
</p><p>Life, onwards, in the Selcouth verse with our boys. We missed them!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breath Play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kinneykid3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneykid3/gifts).



> A commission for our favourite [kinneykid](http://kinneykid.tumblr.com/), who asked for breathplay and spanking with the Selcouth boys.
> 
> This takes place in the summer after Hannibal's college graduation.
> 
> A huge thank you to [noodeltheelephant](http://noodletheelephant.tumblr.com/) for her amazing beta skills. Where would we be without you bb??

_The realization comes with a gasp: he cannot breathe._

The day was savage: another thirteen-hour shift in Emergency. Paperwork and client liaising and working on the less grievous walk-ins. Over and over, noise and artificial light and recycled air. Hannibal had been on his feet this way all week, six days of it, day in day out, coming home wired or exhausted or both, and only today, the day before his only day off, had he dropped to his knees and pressed his face to Will’s thigh and begged him.

_Please._

_Please take me away from myself._

Years from their initial progress into this lifestyle together, a system had easily enough developed. Will always knows, always, what Hannibal needs. He always knows just how much, he always knows just how hard, and he always knows if gentleness or a strong hand are needed. Never once has he let Hannibal fall once he had clambered over the precarious edge of subspace. Never once has he let him down.

Will draws a hand through Hannibal’s straight light hair, fingers carding through it over and over, before they curl and tug hard enough to draw a whimper from the boy at his feet. Always a boy, to Will. Always his boy.

“Collar,” Will tells him. “Crop and cane. You may drink some water before we start if you wish. You may not yet undress. What is your safeword, Hannibal? Say it to me.”

“Pomegranate,” Hannibal whispers, and Will draws a thumb soft over his temple.

“Good boy. Go.”

The ground wavers beneath his feet as he pushes to stand again. Unfurling with a grace that stretches him tall, even in his unsteadiness, Hannibal reaches for the buttons of his shirt but stops before one is undone. The bare narrowing of Will’s eyes as they meet is not in warning, but in approval. Hannibal returns the look with a soft smile.

Already his heart beats thick in his throat. Heavy against his ribs. Viscous beneath his skin. Hannibal can hear the rising tide of white noise in his own mind as if it were the ocean from a distance, its sound carried on a salty wind, growing louder in increments with every step that carries him to the drawer they keep for this.

For him.

He removes the posture collar first, stiff and severe in well-oiled black leather. The riding crop next, with its cruel bend and deceptively soft keeper. Lastly comes the cane. Lifted with both hands in his own quiet reverence, the mere feel of sleek rattan sends goosebumps skittering up the back of his neck and over his scalp. Hannibal shivers, and the waves strengthen against his shore.

He brings the implements to the bed and sets them on the worn bedcover. Each goes in the order in which it was requested, and listening absently as Will ushers the dogs outside, Hannibal pads to the bathroom to get a glass of water. He doesn’t finish it, knowing how it will turn in his stomach once his skin heats beneath skillful strokes of the lash, but it dampens away the dry metallic taste of anticipation.

When he returns, Will is working sweet-smelling oil into the collar, into the crop. They care for the implements together, Will before a session, Hannibal reverently after one, pleased to be able to face his torment again in a way that he can control. Will looks up with his eyes only and gestures with a tilt of his chin for Hannibal to step closer.

He doesn’t move until Hannibal is at his shoulder, hands gently clasped behind his back. He watches him take in the collar and cane, as Will continues working gently over the crop. On the bedside table stands another glass of water, always within reach, always within asking distance - only twice has Will found himself miscalculating and losing Hannibal to unconsciousness during a session, once when he had refused to use his safe word, another when they had first tried the cane, and the pain had overwhelmed him.

Will reaches to draw a hand through Hannibal’s hair again, soothing and comforting, as the kiss had been when his boy had come home exhausted, before he had asked for this. Then Will sighs, takes his hand away.

“Take the collar, please. Kneel by the mirror. I will come when I’m finished.”

Before Hannibal has even taken a step away, collar in both hands, the distance is a strain. He does not want to wait. He does not want to be in his clothes anymore, their reek of disinfectant and latex acrid in his nostrils. He does not want to be apart from Will.

He wants to lay at his feet, or beneath them, and be punished for his disobedience until exhaustion takes him.

But Hannibal has learned in countless trials of such flagrant disregard that it never yields what he desires. It would not satisfy him in the way that Will knows he needs, so often when Hannibal could not voice it himself. It would not please Will to know that Hannibal had resisted what he offers.

So he goes with the languid strides that have come to him in the years they’ve been together. Tall and sleek, possessing a fierce strength that has - during an especially rough session together - at times staggered Will before he returned it. He is a lion to the rest of the world, possessing power and pride. To Will, who watches as Hannibal settles to his knees in front of the mirror, he is a housecat.

“Would you like me to put it on?”

“No, just wait for me,” Will replies, making no effort to speed his progress on the crop. He wants Hannibal to calm himself, take away the initial top layer of his vibrating energy and soothe his breathing to something slightly more comfortable. Will is going to have him sobbing for breath, he is going to leave him sore. He is going to carry him to the bathroom after and draw them a bath and hold onto his boy until he is calm once more.

Because that is what he does.

Because he loves him.

Minutes pass, slow and ticking, before Will sets the crop aside and makes his way to Hannibal where he kneels, obedient and still. He bends behind him, kissing the top of his head gently before bringing his hands down to work open the buttons of Hannibal’s shirt, not scrubs, today, just a plain button-up. One by one he peels them from their holes and spreads the shirt wide over Hannibal’s furred chest.

Then the cuffs.

Then the shirt is removed entirely and set to the floor.

Only then does Will take the collar from Hannibal. Only then does he turn his head to kiss his cheek and whisper against him.

“Chin up.”

Hannibal tilts his head aside, a quick turn to nuzzle and seek another kiss. Will’s lips brush the corner of his mouth, and it’s enough. With a hard swallow, Hannibal lifts his head and as if on reflex, his eyes narrow at his reflection. Pride carries in every particular movement he makes now, a ferocious self-confidence in his own cleverness and elegance. His esteem of himself demands the same from others, who yield it without knowing why.

Will sees it in him, the flicker of tightness in his jaw, the tendon that pulls long in his neck. He will ease it, soon, with stripes and pain - succor and praise.

Hannibal’s breath leaves him with a small sound when the cool leather sets against his throat. Its stiff comportment forces his chin higher and sets firm against his collarbones. He can neither turn his head nor lower it, and Hannibal lets his heart move a little faster at the sensation. The tide is high now, beginning to dampen dry shore and raise the watermark. Will’s fingers pull the collar back snug and lace it through, and the first cinch tugs a curious sound from Hannibal.

Just a moan, high and lovely like any other, as the waves inside his mind catch flickering sun. It’s just a little too tight, but alert, always, Will holds the lacing just so. Hannibal has not made that sound before during this part of their proceedings.

“My apologies,” he murmurs.

Will just hums, to himself mostly, and sets a finger down between the leather and the warm skin against it when he laces up the rest. Always careful, always deliberate, he lifts his eyes to watch Hannibal in the mirror, catching his look and holding it as Will continues to deliberately lace and cinch, turn the rope in his hands and cinch again. It serves as much to soothe in repetition as it does to remind in pressure.

Over and over, until the collar is done up and Will allows the long length of rope to hang down Hannibal’s bare back as his knuckles trace his spine.

“Up,” he tells him softly, smiles when Hannibal immediately obeys, on his knees so Will can bring his hands to his pants and work them free as well. He tries to get up higher to remove the garment entirely but finds a firm pressure on his shoulder keeping him as it is.

Will pulls his pants and briefs down his thighs and leaves him half-dressed that way. He cups Hannibal just once before letting him go and skimming down his inner thighs with rough fingers, encouraging Hannibal’s legs wider until the stretch of fabric stops him moving further.

“Stay like that for me,” Will tells him, knowing he will. “You may rest forward on your hands if you wish. And I would like your voice free today. Speak at will. Ask.” He smiles and stands again, just behind Hannibal, and sets a hand over his collar gently, over his throat. “Now. Tell me why I chose the crop and cane. Tell me why you deserve them.”

Hannibal keeps his palms against his thighs - stubborn, always beautifully stubborn - and stretches his neck, as if the movement might prevent some relief from the collar. It does not, and the press of it beneath his jaw works another small noise from him.

“The crop,” he murmurs, “to warm my skin. To make it sensitive and flushed. To alight the nerves beneath.”

“And the cane.”

“And the cane to silence my thoughts,” Hannibal says. “To focus the tension in myself into pain, and when that pain is relieved, to feel the tension taken with it.”

Will passes by to take up the crop, and fans his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, unsettling it. The sudden touch breaks Hannibal’s focus and his voice from his throat, a shudder straightening his spine and falling from his lips in a moan.

“Why?” Will asks, and at this, Hannibal’s fingernails press into the waistband of his trousers, stretched over his thighs.

“Because I did not come to you sooner,” he says. “Because I waited until I could not stand any more, and I did not tell you when I was troubled.” Hannibal’s throat clicks beneath the collar, and he whispers, “Because I am stubborn.”

The first slap is almost just a warning, enough to jerk Hannibal where he kneels, when the crop strikes the sensitive skin of his inner thighs and slowly slips up to stroke against his groin.

“You are,” Will tells him softly. He tugs just a little more against Hannibal’s hair before the crop strikes - the thin stick of it, not the soft end - harder against his thighs. “And you should know better. You know your limits, now, with me. And you know your limits with yourself. Yet you always push them.”

Another slap, another, little marks left pink against the insides of Hannibal’s thighs. Will gently turns his head so Hannibal is still watching his own punishment and Will behind him, administering it.

“It does neither of us good, Hannibal. You are a doctor. Your work is vital and invaluable, and yet you exhaust yourself beyond reason because you refuse.” The crop strikes his ass, this time, and Hannibal hisses. “To allow yourself much-needed rest.” The crop slips between his cheeks and Hannibal shifts as though to spread his legs wider. “And you refuse to let me allow it for you. What’s to be done?”

The tightening skin where Will has struck resonates less than his words do. As ever, he cuts to the core of Hannibal, not to bare and expose and humiliate, but to black places far inside. Hannibal’s lip curls at the words.

“I rest when I can,” he says, his voice low. It is not a stubbornness born from moments of brattiness, desirous to push limits and see how they bend. It is pride made raw, and Hannibal’s nerves sing with it. “Would they give me time off, I might rest. Would that they did not expect me to work and learn through exhaustion, I might rest.”

Hannibal draws up rigid as the crop slicks up his spine.

“For one who claims my work is vital and invaluable, would you have me be absent from it? To claim that I am too tired to tend to the man who enters with a knife buried to the hilt in his gut, too exhausted to assist the woman whose child’s amniotic fluids are puddling the floor -”

His next snarling insistence cuts short in his throat, as Will stripes his backside, three firm strokes that pull Hannibal’s voice from argument to agony. The crop then comes to rest between Hannibal’s shoulder blades and forces him to kneel properly again, pressure there but not pain. Will watches him in the mirror, watches the flush of pride and displeasure, the tug beneath his eyes for this lesson to be driven home. Will makes a sound, gentle, and slips the crop down Hannibal’s spine again, still holding him by his hair, massaging the scalp with absent turns of his fingertips.

“When you return home to me, you do not go to rest,” Will tells him, matter of fact and quiet. “You take to your books. You take to studying texts that are prescribed to students years ahead in study. You do not take advantage of anything but my patience, Hannibal, do not lie.”

Another series of whips, hard and deliberately aimed, and Hannibal whimpers softly, hands seeking out in front of himself and Will lets him bend gently, so he can rest on all fours.

“I would have you be the best you can be, the best that you are. But I would have you see reason,” Will whispers against him, nuzzling his hair and slipping the crop between Hannibal’s legs again, gently coaxing them wider. “I would have you allow yourself rest when rest is needed. And I would have you be honest with me.”

A quick flurry of strikes, shallow but constant, against Hannibal’s thighs until he grits his teeth and curls his fingers against the floorboards and Will soothes the crop up and down his legs.

“Eyes open, please. Watch.”

Hannibal lifts only his eyes when the posture collar presses to the base of his skull and does not allow him to raise his head. Black eyes, shimmering scarlet in the low lights, track Will’s movement behind him. He is at the shores now, the rustling grasses whispering constant in his ears. Before him - inside him - the tides rushes inward when Will steps back, and takes up the cane instead.

Sleek rattan glints bright. Hannibal can almost hear its whistle already, and yet his eyes soften. Seeing Will this way, austere and beautiful in his cruel kindness, sinks Hannibal’s heart against his ribs.

“Watch yourself, please.”

Hannibal’s throat aches when he swallows. He hardly recognizes himself this way when his attention turns back to the mirror. Disheveled and half-dressed, sweat along his brow and arms trembling. He can’t feel them shake, not over the ebbing pain in his legs.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“For what, Hannibal?”

The boy - and he is that with Will, always - watches his own expression shift, from something refined and elegant into a monstrosity. The agony of admission is every bit as profound a pain as the lashes still tingling over his legs. He curls his lips together and letting them part on a sigh, rests the tip of his tongue against his incisor.

“For speaking half-truths.”

Will draws the tip of the cane up Hannibal’s leg, over the curve of his ass, and says only, “Arch.”

He watches Hannibal shifts his hands, his knees, and bend his back in a pleasing curve. Eyes still up and on his own reflection, collar holding him obediently poised. He is beautiful, trembling and tired as he is, he is always beautiful, and Will can see already the beginnings of that sweet bliss that muddles behind Hannibal’s eyes, that will glaze them, once the pain reaches its peak and Hannibal’s pride is shredded beneath it.

Allowed to fall away.

The cane falls first at the sensitive curve of skin just beneath Hannibal’s ass, where his thighs join, and Will watches as Hannibal’s entire body shakes from the impact, hears how his voice breaks in pain.

“Forgiven,” he murmurs, when Hannibal pants instead, tries to duck his head and can’t, and instead presses his lips together tightly as though it will help the welling tears that turn his chocolate eyes wide. “You know that I aim to do for you what you cannot do for yourself. If you do not trust yourself to rest, trust me to tell you when.”

Hannibal balances precarious against the rushing tide, his thoughts washed away one by one beneath the white noise expanding as his skin contracts from the strike. He balances, and he breathes, helpless to his own words:

“It isn’t that easy -”

The next stripe is laid parallel to the first, crossing his thighs and reverberating until Hannibal can hardly hold himself upright from it. He does, of course, fighting every impulse to bow to the floor. Will knows even as Hannibal releases a pained sound with a puff of air past spit-slick lips that Hannibal would take stripes for as long as Will would give them. He would let himself collapse beneath the cane rather than think himself conquered by it.

“I know you’re expected to work hard,” Will tells him. “I know all of this is to teach you how to work through exhaustion, how to work one more hour on shift, how to dig inside yourself and keep it together. I know, Hannibal.”

His boy chokes back a sound of suffering before Will can lift the smooth rattan from his backside.

“I know,” Will says, “that you don’t think you work hard enough. Being better than everyone else has never been enough for you. You have to best yourself, every time.”

“Please,” Hannibal sighs. His lashes stick damp against his ruddy, blotched cheeks.

“I am not ignorant of the work that must be done. Nor am I ignorant of how you drive yourself into the ground to do it. I need you to trust me.”

Hannibal tries to force his voice forward but the snap of the viciously thin cane across his backside pulls his words back in, sucked into a gasp.

“Trust me,” Will whispers, bending to grasp fingers in Hannibal’s hair, down lower to rest against his collar, catching in the lace and tugging it just a little tighter. He watches Hannibal’s eyes widen, tears slicking hot and uncontrollable, now, down his face as he tries to catch his breath and finds it impossible. Will watches as Hannibal’s cheeks grow more ruddy, as his lips part wider. 

And then he lets him go, stepping back.

Before him, his boy trembles, red lines across pink skin, muscles tense and tight, sweat warm against his back, dampening the longer strands of hair to sharp points at the base of his neck. He is beautiful and penitent, but he is not released, he is not near the place where his consciousness gives and his body responds. Not yet.

Between his legs, Hannibal is semi-hard, from the impact play, from the words. And, Will knows, from that brief moment where he thought he would not breathe.

That is something interesting. It is something entirely unexpected, given how Hannibal is terrified of any sort of restraints that come near his throat or stop him functioning. But this… this is something he wants Will to do again. So Will steps close once more to Hannibal’s side, and switches the cane from one hand to the other, whipping it through the air with a whistle before doing nothing more than resting his hand against the back of his collar again.

Hannibal’s skin begins to cool. The water is to his knees and rushing higher. He can hardly hear for it, eyes open only by force of will alone. Slowly he spreads his legs, the most he can within the confines of his pants pulling red lines into his legs, and he lets himself sink deeper.

“Please,” he whispers.

The lace snared against his second knuckle, Will curls his finger. The stiff black band jutting against Hannibal’s throat creaks as it tightens.

“Do you trust me?”

Heat spilling over from his belly to between his legs, Hannibal’s cock twitches as it fills.

“Yes.”

“With this?”

They have not played this way before. Never intentionally, after a few brushes up against it left Hannibal angry and shaken. But those were hands, then, and silken scarves - not the wide collar that pulls snug everywhere at once. What Will asks unsteadies Hannibal. His voice will not be his to use in yielding if he cannot breathe. His heart will race outside his own careful control.

“Yes,” Hannibal whispers.

Will swallows, watches his beautiful dark eyes in the mirror. He can see the fear, the want there in equal measure, he can see the way Hannibal is already half-gone, half in his own head, surrounded by the white noise of his pain. He bends to kiss against Hannibal’s hair, nuzzling the sweaty strands.

“I will not move from where I stand,” he whispers. “I will be right here. If you want me to stop, grasp my leg, and I will stop. Can you reach?”

He watches Hannibal carefully seek out and curl his fingers around Will’s ankle before returning his hand to the floor. Will praises him with another kiss. 

“I will never hurt you beyond what you cannot take. I will never put you in harm’s way.” Promises, reminders. WIll knows, always knows, how much Hannibal can take, knows just how far and how close to the edge to bring him to have him feel the call of the void but never fall over into it. “I will stop. But if you want me to before I am ready, you will touch me as you did then, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Will sighs and lifts himself a little up off of his boy. His fingers curl tighter and draw the collar against his throat. He feels Hannibal immediately shift in discomfort, in fear, but he does not grasp out, he does not seek. And so Will holds him, careful to watch his responses, to watch how red he becomes, how he starts to gasp for air, spit dripping in a long strand from his lips. And then Will lets him go. And as he does, as Hannibal takes a shuddering breath, the cane strikes cruel against Hannibal’s ass, above the last line Will had made on him.

Hannibal gasps above the waves for air, but no sooner do his lungs fill than he lets his breath slip away in a groan. He cannot bow his head as he wants - the collar will leave bruises against his throat for the attempt - and so he rocks forward onto his hands. Toes curling, fingers curling, Hannibal hisses through the firebrand expansion of his stripe. Dizzy from the cruel snare around his throat, and so hard his belly hurts for it, Hannibal forces his eyes upward to return them to himself.

To Will.

“Again,” he whispers, and when he blinks tears slick from the corners of his eyes.

Will all but straddles him, knees against Hannibal’s sides. Without being asked, Hannibal reaches to find Will’s ankle before pressing his palms flat once more. Without needing to be told, he sits as tall as he can - chin up - despite the tremors that shake him to his core.

The leather collar aches protest at the firm pull. Hannibal gasps and finds that it does not fill him. Nothing works to quiet his heart, nothing works to fill his lungs. Shadows glimmer in an apocalyptic aurora borealis around the rim of his vision. Sparks fire behind his eyelids when he blinks.

Hannibal is drowning.

He lifts a wavering hand from the floor. Fingers numb, Hannibal does not reach for Will’s ankle, but instead splays his fingers around the collar instead. Distantly, he knows he is wet, he knows his cock spills bead after heartbeat bead of precome down his shaft. In a flash of lingering vision, Hannibal’s lips parting useless to draw in air, he looks towards the mirror and watches Will.

Will watches him.

A moment, more, and then Hannibal makes that sound, that pleading sound of utter surrender and Will gives him back his breath. He does not whip him again. He does not have to. Hannibal's resistance breaks and he comes, hot spurts pulsing onto the wooden floor as Hannibal sobs and collapses forward, enough that the motion is jarring, enough that the collar almost takes his breath again.

Will drops to his knees immediately. One hand supports Hannibal's chest so he doesn't fall further, his other works quickly to loosen the laces. He allows the collar to slip from under Hannibal's jaw before lifting it over his head and discarding it, forgotten.

Hannibal is crying. He pulls desperate gasps into his lungs as tears slip past his lips and he coughs them free again.

Will curls his legs, pulls Hannibal's head into his lap and strokes his back. And then, Hannibal laughs - beautiful and free and genuine, pressing a hand to his face before the laughter grows hysterical. Will soothes him with a hand carefully folded over Hannibal’s eyes, another around his chest as Hannibal lies on his side, too sore to lie on his back. Will holds him close.

"You are so good," he whispers, smiling as well, knowing Hannibal will hear it in his tone. "So good, Hannibal, I am so proud of you."

He settles beneath Will’s hand, allowing the darkness to settle around him, the rush of blood that quiets out all other thought. His euphoria fills every steadying breath; each muscle loosens in turn from the tension he carried all week. No longer does he toss his head like a stubborn horse, no longer are his shoulders held steel-beam straight.

“I love you,” he whispers, lips still tingling from the numbness that overtook him. “I missed you.”

“Breathe,” Will reminds him. “I’m here.”

He lets his hand slip from over Hannibal’s eyes that stay closed despite. Stroking sleek strands of hair back from Hannibal’s face, Will continues to touch him, along his back, against his cheek, over and over. Once broken, he must rebuild, and seeing Hannibal return to himself provides the greatest satisfaction Will knows.

Hannibal relaxes into Will’s lap and shivers, suddenly so much smaller than before. Given good food and rest, treated with kindness and support, Hannibal had experienced a late growth-spurt and to Will’s surprise, his boy now stood taller than him by several inches. Broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, with a thick swath of hair across his chest and legs and a strong jaw, what had been beautiful in him when they first met became elevated as he grew older. Will thinks, more often than he would like, about how unlikely Hannibal is, entirely - that he would survive so much, outlast the odds stacked against him and succeed.

And yet here, together, Will revels in how little Hannibal becomes again. He skims his fingers down Hannibal’s arm, tracing muscle beneath soft skin, circling along bone back up to his shoulder blade. Where the rest of the world sees only the man that Hannibal has miraculously become, Will sees this. His Hannibal. His boy.

He continues to touch until Hannibal has stopped trembling, until his breathing is even, until the tears seeping past closed eyelids, uncontrollable, have eased. Then he bends to kiss Hannibal’s forehead, lingering and soft, nuzzling flushed skin.

"I love you," Will tells him, smiling as Hannibal smiles. "I missed you."

"I'm here," Hannibal whispers back, and Will grins, kissing him again before gently shifting from under Hannibal to work his pants off of him fully, to look at the angry red marks over his skin. They will bruise, he knows. And Hannibal will be quick on his feet and reluctant to sit the next few days.

It hardly matters. The next day Will is not going to let Hannibal out of bed, he will stay with him, mark papers and read, stroke his hair and make them coffee and breakfast. He wants to. As much as Hannibal has made it his job to look after Will, Will gets his biggest pleasure taking care of his boy.

Another stroke against sensitive thighs and Will leans over Hannibal on all fours, nuzzling him and pressing a kiss to his lips.

"I will draw a bath," he whispers.

Hannibal grasps for Will and catches his wrist before he can fully right himself. Laying across his belly on the cool floor, Hannibal reels Will lower and pushes a kiss against his palm. He lifts his eyes, still hooded and soft, but draws a meaningful look down the length of Will’s body.

“But you haven’t -”

“A bath,” Will repeats, not ungently. “I have my satisfaction already.”

The boy hums a pleased note and allows Will to extricate his fingers. He watches as Will takes up the implements from where they were left and sets them atop a dresser. He watches as Will stretches on his way to the bathroom, and only closes his eyes when he is out of sight. The pipes rattle to life before the susurrus of water overtakes, and Hannibal folds his arms beneath his cheek, pushing one leg long, then the other. A floral scent catches his attention, and as the water stops, Hannibal draws himself upwards with a grimace.

He lingers in the doorway, shoulder against the frame, and observes the bounty of bubbles in the bath with sleepy amusement.

Will flicks some from his fingers and grabs the back of his shirt to yank it over his head, tossing it to the floor. He turns at the hum from Hannibal and smiles, wry, before lifting a brow.

"Lavender will calm your nerves."

"What nerves?" Hannibal smiles, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes and down over his face. Will steps closer and kisses him when his hand drops away. Again, again, gentle things, just touches of lips together.

"Get in."

"You first."

Will pretends to look put-upon, but works his jeans from his hips and steps out of them. The bubbles make the bath look over-full, but Will steps into it regardless, and sinks down with a contented hum of pleasure. Bubbles catch in his hair, and when he turns to look at Hannibal the other is smiling wide, delighted, exhausted, freed, and so happy to be home.

"Come here," Will teases.

“And if I want to watch you?”

Will’s eyes narrow a little, playful, and Hannibal eases forward. He will not make the man repeat himself. The skin on his thighs, striped across his ass, pull painful as he walks, but what lingers is not the tingling of cane-stroked nerves but the little bursts of relief that each creates. Will sits up higher as Hannibal steps in, and with a slow settling, groans when warm water rises over his legs. He sits facing Will, his back against the other side of the tub, and careful not to slosh water over the side, adjusts their legs together, almost too long now for them to do this.

Almost.

He sinks lower, knees rising, and with bubbles up to his chin, squints at Will across from him.

“I’ve not yet cleaned the tools,” he remarks, voice carrying the soft slur of sleepy release. “May in the morning, rather than tonight?”

"This is why I cleaned them earlier," Will tells him, an allowance and agreement both - the leather could wait, well-cared for and treated. Carefully, Will reaches to his side and grasps Hannibal's ankle, moving to set his foot against Will’s stomach before pressing his fingers against the arch of it until Hannibal groans.

"Six," Will says, as Hannibal allows himself to relax in the warm water, in Will’s capable hands. "Six students did not turn in their papers. How many times I mentioned this was vital to their grade I don’t even recall."

"Will you fail them?"

"Of course." Will has hardly changed from being the most difficult lecturer to please at the academy, though he always insists that it doesn't take more than lack of common sense to anger him. He still spends most of his time marking papers against Hannibal’s back.

He sets one foot down and reaches for Hannibal's other, bringing it up out of the water enough to kiss the shin before working his fingers against the tense muscle here too.

"What did you see today?" Will asks. 

“Besides shocking displays of ego and incompetence, from doctors who should know better?” Hannibal snorts. “I was not speaking in hyperbole before,” he murmurs, slipping a little lower into the bath. He pushes aside the fragrant bubbles to watch Will through them, water lapping at his chin. “A man assaulted with a knife. A pregnant woman who drove herself to the hospital, walked in, and broke water in the waiting room.”

Will lifts a brow as Hannibal pauses.

“Pregnant woman is an incorrect assessment,” he amends. “New mother, now.”

“Did you assist?”

The muscles beneath Hannibal’s eyes lift a little, expression gentling. “Not in the delivery. But I did risk a broken hand in allowing her to hold it on the way in.” He draws a breath and tilts his head back, eyes on the ceiling as Will’s hands move up tired calves.

“Brave boy,” Will tells him softly, watches the way Hannibal’s smile spreads even when he doesn’t lift his head again. The massage continues, gentle and soothing, over Hannibal’s calf, over the other. Will can feel him grow heavier, can feel Hannibal’s breathing smooth out and ease.

Good.

He needs the sleep.

Dinner is made and ready, should Hannibal feel so inclined to eat it, but it’s hardly necessary when he is so close to losing himself to sleep. Will would rather, anyway.

He has watched Hannibal grow into the man he is now: strong and clever, efficient and beautiful. He knows his patients love him, other interns want to be him, want to learn from him. He knows, too, that the head doctor is not a fan of him and that too is unsurprising considering Hannibal’s substantial ego and pride that Will hones as much as he controls when it grows out of hand.

Will makes a sound, enough to get Hannibal’s attention, and coaxes him to lie stomach-first on him instead. He watches, slow movements and quiet sighs, as Hannibal adjusts himself to lie pressed flat to Will in the tub, chin against his shoulder, lips pressing softly to his cheek. Will sets his hands to Hannibal’s shoulders and begins the massage there as well.

Beneath his hands, Hannibal’s muscles twitch. Strain and exhaustion in equal measure leave with each push of careful fingers, and Hannibal stretches feline and long, down to his toes. Against Will’s throat he makes a small sound before his lips touch again and curl against the older man’s pulse. For the sleepy weight that tugs heavy at his body, Hannibal is still not one to leave work - or pleasure - unconsummated. He spreads his hand over Will’s chest and brushes over a nipple as he seeks down his hairless stomach, under the water, to take Will’s cock in hand.

He is soft, now, as languid as Hannibal from their shared exhilaration. But stroke by stroke, capable fingers bring blood to fill his member, elegant turns of wrist that wind on the downstroke and tighten upward again. Will’s hands still against Hannibal’s back.

“Allow me, please,” Hannibal asks. “To celebrate a day off. Or the fact that I still have use of my hand at all,” he adds, grinning briefly beneath Will’s jaw.

Will hums, resting his own head back over the edge of the tub and drawing one knee up so it rests above the water, suds slowly slicking down it back into the bath again.

“By all means,” he murmurs, arching slowly into the hand that strokes him, patient and practiced and perfect. Years, now, and neither of them have felt the need to void their contract to each other. It was a year ago that Hannibal had suggested that perhaps instead of annually, they could go over the terms of it every five years instead. Will had held him so tightly his hands trembled and told him he loved him.

“Tomorrow,” Will continues, voice sleepy, one hand down to rest between Hannibal’s shoulders, the other lower down his back. “I will keep you in bed all day. Barring the bathroom you may not leave it.”

“And what will you do to me in bed?”

“Oh,” Will sighs, lips parting as Hannibal slips his foreskin down and strokes just the tip. “Everything. I will make you sleep. I will sleep with you. I will sleep on you and around you -”

Hannibal’s smile draws up his eyes. He leans back enough that he can watch Will, studying the intricate patterns of pleasure that flicker across his face, the fine wrinkles of his years that serve only to make him that much more handsome. His lips are flushed, damp, parted just enough that Hannibal can see his teeth.

He squeezes a little firmer and strokes a little faster.

“May I study,” he asks, “while you grade papers?”

“No.”

Hannibal tries to catch the sound he makes behind thinned lips, but it aches out despite. Heat pools in his belly, between his legs, a wave of warmth over his skin from that word alone. Always, always from that word.

“May I be your table, then, as you mark them?”

“No,” Will sighs, but there is no cruelty in the denial, he is not holding Hannibal back from his enjoyment of it for spite. “No, Hannibal, tomorrow I want you to rest. Please. If only the one day.”

Hannibal makes another sound and Will’s hand slips up into his hair instead, even as he doesn’t raise his own head. He strokes, gentle and soft, until Hannibal sighs resignation and moves to rest against him again.

“I wouldn’t dream of marking them without help,” Will tells him, smile curling his words. “They aren’t due for another ten days. Perhaps another night when you feel inclined to make the offer, we will work on them together.”

The thoughts send another shiver through the boy, who curls closer - paper tickling his legs, pen touching languid marks over his back, body tiring itself in inches from holding resolutely still, and the soft touches that ease him when he trembles. Hannibal doesn’t ask if he promises; Will saying so is enough that he knows. Only once in their time together has Will not made good on a promise, and only then because Hannibal bit first.

Hannibal lets the thoughts ease, too long ago to merit any more consideration. He lets all his thoughts ease to instead focus on how Will’s pulse can be felt through his cock, thick and full. Hannibal presses his fingertips against the silky skin. His thumb works over his taut frenulum, around the ridged band beneath the head, up to press against his slit. Each stroke brings a new sensation to the sensitive skin of Will’s exposed cock, exploring with shameless pleasure, until Hannibal brings Will’s foreskin high again to stroke him properly.

Water slaps against the edge of the tub from the swiftness of his motions. Will gasps, bringing a hand to curl against the edge, and his spine curls beautifully, almost doubled-over from the pressure screwing tight against his cock. Watching him, Hannibal parts his lips in sympathy when Will moans, and grins when Will’s length jerks in his hand, ribboning white into the water.

He goes lax, then, breathing rushed and heavy and limbs hot against Hannibal when he draws his boy closer against him, uncaring for the mess between them. They would rinse off in the shower after this anyway, before he dragged Hannibal to bed.

They lie this way until the water begins to cool, Will’s fingers slipping over slippery skin and damp hair, Hannibal’s over Will’s chest to feel his heart slow. It is Hannibal that moves first, and when he does, Will goes with him, draining the tub and turning on the shower above it to rinse them and the suds away into the drain. They wash, carefully, fresh-smelling soap to remove the residue of rubber and medicine and disinfectant from Hannibal’s skin. By the time they’re finished, he is swaying, and Will wraps him in a towel before sending him to bed, making his way to the door to open it for the dogs. 

They flood in and he feeds them, while Hannibal curls pleasurably beneath the sheets. And when the last of the happy whining creatures licks their bowl clean, Will makes his way to join Hannibal in bed.

He is already asleep. Turned onto his side so as not to lay on his stripes, with an arm tucked beneath his head, his lips part on gentle sighs grown long with welcome rest. He hardly stirs when Will settles in beside him, and only moves when Will sweeps Hannibal’s hair gently from his face. With a small sound, almost fussy, Hannibal tilts his head towards the touch and blinks bleary eyes open.

“Sleep,” Will tells him, and rests his hand across Hannibal’s eyes once more.


End file.
